Dying For Life
by Moleluv
Summary: Once upon a time, a Bee helped a boy. Ten years later, Bee needs the help. But this time, the boy is dying. This is the story of Samuel Witwicky.
1. Chapter 1

**YES! THE EASTER HOLIDAYS HAVE BEGUN! And there's only a month left until exams… : ( **

**Buuuutttt, NO SCHOOL! YES!**

**So, as a celebration, I decided to post a chapter of a new story.**

**Please be informed that this story has been written at 10pm, because I wanted to scribble down ideas. It grew and… behold! A story!**

**I apologize for any canonical inaccuracies in this chapter. Any after this chapter are intentional. If you are unsure, ask me.**

**Story of the post – We're Just Kids by **_**Sealure**_**. It's a post BOO story. Basically, Percy is dying, and Triton realizes the truth about the half-brother that he once hated so much.**

**Anyways, on with the story!**

* * *

**AN INTRODUCTION**

A mother was telling a story, her children listening, rapt.

"You know the story of Cybertron, don't you?" she said.

"Uh-huh!" the littlest piped up. "Once upon a time, there was a bad mech named Megatron, who tried to overthrow the High Council of Cybertron, which was led by the corrupt Prime, Sentinel. The data clerk Orion Pax was the first bot to realize his lies, so the Allspark anointed him with the title of… um…"

"Optimus Prime!" his older sister piped up, taking over the storytelling. "Optimus formed a group to help protect the Council and all of the mechs caught in the crossfire, who became the Autobots."

"Indeed!" their mother laughed. "But their battles broke out into a full out war, and all the sparklings perished." A note of sadness entered her voice. "The last sparkling, Bumblebee, lost his voice during a battle at Tyger Pax. It was merely a distraction, though, as the Autobots used the cover of battle. They sent the Allspark far, far away, where nobot would ever find it."

She leaned forwards, a glint in her eye. "It's time for me to tell you the rest of the story…"

_**-END OF CHAPTER-**_

* * *

**So, good? Bad? I know it's short, but the rest will be longer. Tell me what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello!**

**Back to school now! *sad face***

**So, from May 10 (my birthday!) until around mid-June, I most likely will not be posting anything, as my exams start on the 13****th****, which is a bit nerve-wracking.**

**Last night was quite amusing, though.**

**About 2 hours after I was supposed to be in bed, my mum walks past my bedroom door to go to the loo. She sees that my door's open, and looks in… to see me lying on the floor in near pitch black, scribbling something down. My excuse? I had a fanfiction idea. Mum accepts this and moves on. Just another night at my house lol.**

**Story Of The Post – Trick Hunt by **_**sakurademonalchemist. **_**It's a Supernatural/ Avengers crossover where Dean wakes up after Hell a little… different, whilst Asgard is freaking out over how Loki regained his memories from his immortal life so soon. Are they connected? Read on to find out!**

**PLEASE REVIEW!**

**So, on with the story!**

* * *

**THE BEGINNING**

Sam Witwicky looked out of the window of his history class longingly. _Cmon, cmon, I just want this lesson to __**end**__, dammit!_

He coughed into his hand, the perpetual tightness in his chest easing for a split second with the cough.

Everybody was suddenly looking his way. Shit! What was he supposed to do? He floundered for a moment before simply giving up. "I'm sorry, sir, please may you repeat that question?"

"Of course, ," the asshol- _teacher_ – said sarcastically. "Please come to the front to give your oral genealogy report. And _do_ try not to drift off, won't you?"

"O- of course not, sir." Damn his chest! He pounded at it as discreetly as he could, and coughed into a tissue as he retrieved the items needed for his project – he hoped nobody noticed, as whenever he had to spit up into a tissue, people always glared at him. One woman had even tutted. (Like it was _his_ fault that he was ill. What did they expect him to do, swallow the gunk and let it sit on his chest? Hell and no sprang to mind.)

As he finished coughing underneath the guise of gathering his things, he stared in dismay at the deep red coating the tissue. Damn, he needed his medication, quickly!

"Mr. Witwicky…" the 'teacher' stated, a note of warning in his voice. The man really didn't deserve the title, Sam mused for a moment.

"Sir, before I begin my presentation, may I go and take my medication?" he asked, eyes wide and innocent – because if he refused, he was leaving to take it anyway, and screw the consequences.

The educator sighed. "Quickly, then."

Bobbing his head, Sam rushed to the toilet and quickly drew a capped syringe from his bag, which he stuck into his vein. **(Like how diabetic people can inject insulin into themselves.)**

Depressing the plunger, he sighed in relief as his chest eased… foe now.

Returning the now half-full syringe into his bag, Sam made his way back to the classroom and entered again.

With a quick "sorry about that." Sam began his presentation about his great-grandfather, Archibald Witwicky, and how he supposedly found a giant ice man in the Arctic.

What could he say about that? What was the 'ice man' even doing there? Maybe it was looking for Santa because it didn't like the coal it got for Christmas? (Not that he spoke that last bit aloud, as he would have been looked at like he was crazy… well, _crazier._)

He displayed Archibald's equipment, and pondered that, if the circumstances were different, then he might have had to sell these for car money.

Instead, he was friends with a bunch of history nerds that he discussed the history behind the objects with.

There were some cool ruins in the mountains of Petra, for example – there was a huge doorway that boasted strange markings, almost identical to those that Archibald had written in the mental asylum. This interested him so much that he was making plans on how to journey there for a gap year.

Once his presentation was over, Sam settled back into his sear and waited until the bell rang, the other students making a break for the freedom that he had been so wistfully contemplating 15 minutes ago.

Yet he screwed up his courage and approached the teacher's desk. Well, the desk of He-Who-Does-Not-Deserve-To-Teach, anyway.

Attempting to keep his disdain for the cretin out of his voice, Sam asked. "So, what's my grade, sir?" He remembered the one time that he had refused to address the man as 'sir' – the tongue lashing he had been given was ridiculous.

…he still called the man sir, though.

"Hmmm… in light of your _condition_ –" the man spat the word out like it was a curse. "- an A."

_Yes!_ Sam mentally fist-pumped and began a happy dance.

"Thank you, sir." He retrieved a signed sheet that legitimized his grades, and made his way outside. He hadn't even had to use the "what would Jesus do?" line which would have ensured an A. His mom had told him about the line after taking pity on his panicking. He really wanted that car.

As he ran out, waving his exam grade in joy, he saw a few people sneer – before they realized who he was, and averted their eyes, plastering on expressions that would be more appropriate at a funeral.

They might attend his soon, after all.

Because Samuel Witwicky might be only 16 years old… but he was dying.

_**-END OF CHAPTER-**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you half-term, for the beautiful respite that you have given me from exams!**

**Also, does anyone else hate stereotypes? I was declared a lesbian last week by some boy, who walked up to me, called me 'peng' (I still don't know what it means) and asked for my phone number or whether I was on Instagram so he could 'hit me up' on it. (My Mum had to explain what that meant.) So I'm a lesbian because I don't want to date some immature arsewipe that didn't introduce themselves or ask for my name before they started harassing me for a date? I'd much rather be a lesbian, thanks.**

**Rant over.**

**SpawnOfTheChaosBringer – thank you for your review, it made my day when I saw it! Here is more of this story to tempt our interest! **

**I DO NOT OWN TRANSFORMERS! **

**Story of the post – The Rebirth Of Tsunayoshi Sawada by **_**Shameless Dilettante.**_** Tsuna dies… and wakes up in his younger body. He immediately begins attempting to troll everybody.**

**So, on with the story!**

* * *

**MEMORIES AND MEETING BUMBLEBEE**

Lying back in the car as his dad drove, Sam dreamed.

Dreamed of the day that he knew he was dying.

_He wasn't very old in the dream/memory, maybe only 4-5. But he was running, and he was afraid._

_What he hadn't told his parents about school was that he wasn't just 'unused to the surroundings' – an excuse that was wearing thin despite his klutziness – he was being bullied._

_A gang of boys would run after him and beat him up ("Run, Sammy, run!")_

In the passenger's seat, Sam's head began to toss and turn slightly, flinching as it did so, drawing his father's attention.

_But today was different. They had cornered him far away from anybody else, which was odd in on itself – they usually enjoyed the cheering crowd that surrounded him and sometimes joined in (those were the hardest injuries to explain)._

_What really clued him in were the weapons._

Sam began to whimper slightly, causing Ron to bit his lip in concern. He knew which dream this was.

Quickly pulling into a deserted street, he parked the car, helpless to do anything but let the nightmare – the** memory** – run its course.

_A small voice in the back of his head screamed for him to __**run, run quickly and as far as he could**__, or __**this time, he really **_**would**_** be dead.**_

_The gang took a single step towards him, and he bolted._

"_Run Sammy run!" they screamed in a frenzy, sprinting faster and harder than anyone their age had a right to, a speed no ordinary five-year-old could hope to match._

_And Sam was a very clumsy five-year-old. So he did what any clumsy five-year-old would do when running for their lives._

_He tripped._

_Looking back on it later, this moment almost always elicited a facepalm and a _"Goddamn…" _from him._

_Because he tripped! Like the too stupid to live blonde who runs from the monster in a horror movie and does one of two things:  
a) Runs straight into the monster, which promptly eats her.  
b) Trips and gets eaten anyway.  
Either way, the girl was screwed._

_And so was Sam._

_They set upon him with all the weapons that five-year-olds could acquire – baseball bats and gardening poles, mainly (by gardening poles he meant the huge sticks that you tied your sunflowers to – to this day nobody had any idea how they'd been smuggled into the school), but one child had an overlarge set of brass knuckles._

_As they attacked him, more and more of his blood was lost – more and more of his limbs were broken._

_(The attending doctor had consulted the child's notes later on, and had stated that it was "a miracle that the child had lived, thank the Lord" – Sam was more inclined to thank who (or what) ever had given him that urge to __**run**__.)_

_As blackness encroached on the edge of his vision, he desperately fought it off – from the same place that told him to run, the voice whispered that that blackness meant __**death**__._

_So he screamed._

_A desperate, animalistic screech that pushed back the darkness, roaring his defiance and pain to the heavens. This scream contrasted his earlier ones – then he had begged for somebody, for __**anybody**__, to help him. Now, though… now, he __**demanded**__ that they hear him._

_The raw terror in the shriek jolted they boys back to the present – upon seeing the full extent of the damage that they had wrought, the boys ran. Nobody would hear the full extent of their crimes for a few days._

This was normally when Sam woke up, distraught and in need of his medication. Ron took the syringe out of Sam's bag and shook his head at the dwindling supply – he would have to buy more soon, and that stuff wasn't cheap.

Yet Sam didn't wake – the dream still had more to show.

_Delirious as he bled out, woozy from both blood loss and pain, Sam heard a strange sound and was confused – why didn't he wake up like he normally did? But it seemed that his memory had a few more things to reveal._

_Warmth and safety and comfort._

_Those feelings rushed through him at the inquisitive chirp that he heard. What __**was**__ that? Then, giant metal hands picked him up and he saw a kind (if robotic) face._

_**Sleep. Safe now.**__ The voice whispered, and Sam let himself drift off to sleep, knowing that he would be protected._

_He woke up in hospital a week later to a crying mother and a fuming father._

_Those 'harmless children, who wouldn't hurt a fly' had inflicted very serious wounds. The doctors predicted that he wouldn't make it past his 20__th__ birthday._

Only now, as Sam awoke from his dream, could Sam remember the strange **thing** that rescued him, and he couldn't help but wonder.

Why was this being revealed to him now?

_**-END OF CHAPTER-**_

* * *

…**Bet that wasn't what you expected. This chapter was all planned out, but Bee stole the story and ran off, with me chasing after him yelling NO BEE WHAT ARE YOU DOING?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello, I am alive!**

**I have basically just been enjoying my holiday by sleeping in late, but I woke up early today and thought 'you know what, I'll give my lovely readers another chapter!'**

**So here it is! Chapter 4 of Dying for Life!**

**Mystery, thanks for your sncouragement!**

**I DO NOT OWN TRANSFORMERS TOO MANY NOTS DIED FOR THAT.**

**TW: Slight allusions to rapist/pedophilia, and slight swearing.**

**Story Of The Post – Little Children by **_**ilovecartoonsgirl.**_** It's a KHR fanfiction where Tsuna and the rest of the Tenth Generation run away from an orphanage at a young age. It's very good.**

**So, on with the story!**

* * *

**40 YEAR OLD VIRGIN AND THE MYSTICAL BOND IS FORMED**

Sam woke solely, head clear, feeling better than he had in years. His dad went to inject him with the serum, but he shook his head.

"Dad… I feel great." Sam laughed, truly _laughed,_ as the implications of his statement sunk in.

Ron slowly put the syringe away as he processed his son's words. Sam _did_ in fact look very healthy, and he even had a healthy colour in his cheeks – making his former pallor all the more discernable.

For the first time in years, Sam looked… alive, and less like the wax mannequin that he appeared to be.

"So," Sam's eyes sparkled with vitality. "Let's go get a car."

* * *

As they pulled into the car lot, neither noticed a yellow Camaro pulling in behind them.

The Scout had located the Descendant.

* * *

"Bobby B, call me Bobby B." The car salesman had a pedophile/ rapist smile on, and Sam wondered why he'd ever come here.

Oh, yeah, his cheap-ass dad (but he meant it fondly) had made him.

Shooting a glare at the man as he attempted to stifle his snickers, Sam stalked off in a huff, looking for a salvageable piece of crap in this literal shitshow.

He didn't succeed for a long time.

Sam spent nearly ½ an hour searching for _something_ in the car lot that was pulling at him, but then his dad intruded into his personal space and asked "Found anything?"

Sam whirled on his heel towards his father, waving his hands in distress, and Ron couldn't help but smile, because his child looked so full of _life_.

"You see this car?" Sam pointed towards something that looked like it would fall apart at the slightest wind. "That's the 40-year-old-virgin. You see this one?" he pointed towards a car which was **somehow even worse** (how was that possible?)

"That…that is the 50-year-old-virgin!" his son proclaimed dramatically.

After a few seconds of silence, where the only sound was poorly concealed chuckles at his son's plight, there was a change in the air.

Sam's head shot up from the position it had been in as he silently bemoaned his life. A blank, faraway look plastered itself onto Sam's face, and a slow prickle of fear crept down Ron's spine.

"Sam…" he breathed in horror as his child's demeanor _warped_ somehow, changed into another's.

This…**difference** strode through the cars, sharp eyes picking them out, until they neared a very foreboding-looking car that had all of Ron's senses screaming a warning to him.

Thankfully, the differences melted away as Sam approached the car, the gait becoming looser, the head dropping down, the posture slumping… and emotion appearing on his face.

Thank fucking God, Ron sighed quietly.

Yet the emotions themselves were puzzling. There was respect and _recognition_ (why?) and even confusion, as though Sam hadn't expected to find this car (or any car this good, really) at this car dealer's.

Whatever. Ron couldn't fathom what went on inside his child's head on a NORMAL day, which today was most definitely not.

So Ron stood there and watched as his son just randomly _got in the car_ (was that even allowed?)

"Hmm. Feels nice." His son mused, thumb lovingly rubbing against the wheel.

"How much?" his son demanded to the creepy-ass dealer, who randomly appeared next to Ron. (_**when **__the __**fuck **__ did he get there?_ Part of him internally screamed.)

Creepy C (it suited him far better than Bobby B) admitted that he wasn't sure where the car came from, but due to the "classic nature of the vehicle, and the custom paintjob… $5000."

Ron nearly slumped in relief. They weren't getting Satan's Camaro. Thank all the deities

* * *

Nope. Spoke too soon. Satan's Camaro was haunted or something. (well it WAS Satan's...)

It smashed the car next to it (barely missing Creepy, which would have been no true loss) and then broke the rest of the car's windows – blew them all out at once.

Creepy C raised a trembling hand.

"4000!"

The car radiated smugness.

Ron sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, necessary for the Stressed-Out-Mom-Look ™.

He was WAY too old for this shit.

_**-END OF CHAPTER-**_


End file.
